


something sweet

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, British Comedy, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Husbands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: Harry’s a contestant on the Great British Bake Off and it’s at once both the best and worst thing that’s happened to Zayn.





	something sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to keep ending up in the middle of half a dozen zarry projects and then not finishing them... So I might be posting a bunch of random little short one-shots over the next week or so as I go through the WIPs and finish up what I can? Who knows, we’ll see. ANYWAY! This is inspired by the cute gay one on this series of GBBO who deserved better. It was supposed to be pure ridiculous fluff but it got a bit angsty for a while there because when do these two not?

“Zayn.” A pause. “ _Zayn._ ”

Zayn grunts, keeping his face firmly smashed into the pillow.

“Zayn, love.” Harry’s fingers scratch at the short hairs at the back of his neck. “I just need you to try something for me. It’ll only take a moment,”  he coos in a soft voice.

Zayn sighs and tips his head to the side. “What time is it?” He mumbles. His eyes remain resolutely shut.

Harry doesn’t respond straight away. “Just after five.”

Zayn makes a pained noise. 

“So quick, I promise. Open up.” 

Zayn cracks his dry mouth open and feels the cool rim of the spoon slip past his lips. He tastes raspberries, strawberries, and a hint of something he can’t place. He smacks his lips together a few times and hums. “S’a bit sweet,” he mumbles. “Bit like cough syrup.”

“I knew I used too much sugar.” The bed shifts as Harry ducks forward and presses his lips to the top of Zayn’s head. “Thank you, I love you, you can go back to sleep now.” 

Zayn sighs and tugs the blankets tighter up around himself. They both know Harry will be back within the hour with something else for him to try. 

This has been going on for weeks now. The early mornings of pastry and the late nights of dough that have Harry coming to bed cursing and shaking flour from his hair. Zayn spent most of the previous weekend scraping dried up batter off the kitchen ceiling.

First, there was the audition rounds when Harry was so nervous he barely slept at all. A brief moment of respite when he found out he’d gotten a place, followed by weeks of panic-induced meltdowns as he tried to prepare for the upcoming challenge weeks. Some days, Zayn worries what will be left of his husband by the time he finally leaves _The Great British Bake-Off_ tent for good.

But that’s not to say it’s _all_ bad. Zayn is certainly reaping the benefits of the constant supply of new and innovative baked goods around the house; of coming home from work each day to the smell of fresh-baking wafting through to the entryway. And in the moments when Harry is happy with what he’s produced, with the upcoming week or the one just passed, he is _ecstatic._ Zayn wants so badly for him to win—more so, he thinks, than even Harry does—but he also wants so badly for it all to be over already.

The rest of Zayn’s morning passes undisturbed but he wakes up to an empty bed. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. The lingering sweet taste on his tongue has gone stale and he grimaces as he pushes himself up and out of the bed. He pads downstairs in just his boxers and a loose t-shirt. But it’s quiet there, too. No music playing; no sound of the KitchenAid working double-time.

He walks into the kitchen and scans the chaos. Bowls are piled up here and there on the counters; a packet of butter is melting in the sunshine and dripping onto the floor; and there’s a chopstick poking out of the toaster with half a banana speared on the end. This is no longer a surprising sight; he’s almost forgotten what colour the kitchen counters are meant to be. Zayn reaches for a tea towel almost on auto-pilot and slings it over his shoulder.

On the end of the cabinet, there’s a pink post-it note with Harry’s familiar looping script on it.

_Gone to Sainsbury’s, back soon. I’ll tidy up when I get back, promise! x H_

Zayn heaps up bowls into the sink and wipes down the surfaces, cracking open a window to let the lingering smell of burning out. The way Zayn sees it, there isn’t much he can do to aid this process, aside from providing moral support. He’s a fair cook—maybe better than fair—but he can’t bake to save his life. The few cakes he’s tried to make for Harry’s birthday over the years have resulted almost categorically in fire or raw batter or both. So, if all he can do is help to reset the stage whenever Harry’s done with one round, then he’s going to do it. No matter how many times Harry tells him he doesn’t have to. 

To Zayn’s credit, Harry’s cooking skills leave much to be desired. On their first date, Zayn cooked for Harry and Harry baked for Zayn. Little has changed in the years since that night when they sat, both a little nervous, both a little excited, exchanging soft smiles over large glasses of red wine. Harry’s lips tasted sweet and Zayn swears to this day that he knew then, from that night, that Harry was it for him.

Zayn’s finished up and in the shower by the time Harry gets back. Water drips down his head and into his eyes as he pokes at the flat of his stomach. Despite his naturally slim build, he’s going to start getting a little round at the edges if he keeps eating everything Harry bakes. 

Harry ducks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him to keep in the steam. “You’ll never guess what I found!” He’s a little out of breath; Zayn can hear his short puffs of breath even over the shower. “Gold leaf. In _Sainsbury’s_. I’ve never seen it there before.” Harry grabs his toothbrush and turns to the mirror.

“Must have known you were coming, babe.” Zayn sticks his head under the spray to rinse the conditioner from his hair.

Harry, toothbrush hanging from his foamy mouth, draws a heart in the steam on the shower door. “Thanks for tidying up again,” he murmurs with a soft smile. “You really didn’t need to.”

Zayn smiles and steps forward to push his nose up to the glass. “Join me?” He asks with the corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

Harry turns, spits, and presses a kiss to the glass over where Zayn’s lips are. “Can’t. I’ve got muffins to master.”

Zayn sighs and closes his eyes. Saturday mornings used to mean shower sex and a fry-up. Afternoons in the garden with their ankles linked as they read in the sunshine, or day trips to the woods nearby for a walk, or lazy days on the sofa watching entire seasons of _House of Cards_ as the rain lashed down outside. Now, he’s lucky if he can steal even ten minutes of Harry’s attention away from even layers and sugar spinning—and that’s if Harry’s even home, and not off at the tent.

“What do you think about cranberries in the summer? Too festive?” Harry asks, not even waiting for a response before he’s out of the door and back to his kitchen. 

“I like cranberries,” Zayn says to an empty room.

 

* * *

 

“Toasted pecans!”

 Zayn falters. “Wh-what?” He pants. His chest is heaving, his thighs burning, one hand locked tightly around the headboard. “Toasted what?” Zayn stills, his cock buried deep inside of Harry. He shifts a little to take the pressure off his knees.

“Pecans,” Harry whimpers. He wets his lips. He looks fucked out but his gaze is suddenly focused and bright. “Toasted pecans. That’s wh— _Fuck._ What I’ve been missing.”

Zayn’s head droops, his chin to his chest. He huffs out a breath. “Right. Well.”

“Have you got a pen?”

Zayn looks at him, incredulous. “Why would I—? No, Harry, I don’t tend to have a pen to hand while I’m having sex with you.”

“But I need to write it down or I’ll forget!”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know.” Zayn tries not to let his exasperation show through. “Hold the thought?”

“No, Zayn, I have to write it down." 

Zayn shakes his head a little and slides out of him. He gets up off the bed, his knees still a little shaky, his cock still pressing up against his thigh. He grabs a pen from the dresser and chucks it in Harry’s direction. “There.”

Harry uncaps it with his teeth and scribbles it down in between tattoos on his forearm for lack of paper.

Zayn stares at him for a moment, at once so in love with Harry and yet so utterly frustrated by him. He heads towards the bathroom.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Just need a minute,” Zayn mumbles as he heads inside, closing the door behind him. He grips the sides of the sink and stares at his reflection, strands of hair flopping into his eyes. He glances down at his dick, not even slightly softened, flushed an angry red at the tip. “I know how you feel,” he mutters and tries to remember what life was like before he’d had to resort to talking to his own cock in the bathroom while Harry, naked, writes recipes on himself.

He splashes a little water over his face and pats it dry. “Don’t be an idiot,” he tells himself firmly. He steps out of the bathroom, expecting to find Harry where he left him. Maybe a little frustrated himself; maybe a little desperate. Maybe with one hand wrapped around his cock and a finger up his arse.

But the bed is empty. The pen lies discarded on the floor and from downstairs Zayn can hear the sound of pans being clattered around. Zayn’s smile fades as he stomps over to the bed and sits down. He has half a mind to go downstairs, completely naked, and position himself clearly in Harry’s line of vision. Maybe _then_ , he’d be able to get his attention.

He doesn’t. He won’t admit it to himself but he doesn’t want to try because he suspects it wouldn’t work. He gets himself off, instead, but it’s barely satisfying and makes him feel more than a little stupid, with Harry just down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Zayn peels off his soaked jacket and hangs it over the radiator. His shoulders ache from too long hunched over his desk and he can feel the cold down to his bones. It’s one of those miserable November days: the sun barely crested the horizon at all and the steady downpour continued on through the day, not even stopping long enough for Zayn to buy his lunch without getting drenched all over again.

He pushes his wet hair back from his face and toes off his shoes. A jumper, a cup of tea, and a cuddle. That’s what he needs, and then he’ll be alright again. He spies one of Harry’s sweaters lying over the back of the sofa and steals it, tugging it over his head. It hangs too big over his smaller frame and he rolls the sleeves up to his wrists as he walks through to the kitchen.

A cloud of cinnamon and sugar seems to hang over the kitchen and Zayn’s stomach growls a little. “Hiya, babe,” he says with a soft smile. Already, he’s feeling better, just seeing Harry: the sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed up to his elbows; his long fingers working delicately around some dough; a look of fierce concentration knitted into his features.

Harry doesn’t respond. 

“Babe,” Zayn tries again, walking forward to touch a hand to Harry’s shoulder lightly.

“Oh.” Harry looks up and blinks a few times. It’s like he barely sees him at all. “Hi. I’m a little busy right now.”

Zayn squeezes his shoulder. “I’m not even here. Just making a cup of tea and then I’ll get out of your way.”

“Could you—” Harry sighs. “Could you maybe just wait a half hour or so? I really need the space.”

Zayn stops and stares at him. “I’ll be two minutes, Harry.”

“Please,” Harry insists. He’s not even looking at him, back to focusing on his dough. “I’m just asking you to wait. Can’t you understand that?” He shakes his head. “It’s like you don’t get how important this is to me,” he mutters.

Zayn bites down on his lip hard to stop himself from saying something he’ll regret later. _I used to be important to you, too, you know._ He doesn’t say anything, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen. He doesn’t have the energy to fight with Harry, nor does he want to distract him from his work. Because contrary to what Harry seems to believe, he _does_ understand how important it is to him. Just like he’s understood it this whole time. It’s why Zayn hasn’t said a word even when he’s felt like screaming at him to notice something else, _anything_ else, than his baking.

He flops down on the sofa and sinks back, closing his eyes. The beginnings of a headache pulse behind his eyes as he draws his legs up and lies out on the sofa, tucking his head into the cushion. He doesn’t really mean to fall asleep, only to rest for a moment and try to calm himself down. 

But when he wakes, sometime later, he knows he’s not where he was. Zayn cracks open an eye, tucking the blanket that’s draped over his body up to his chin. He’s on top of their bed, which is a little surprising, but more surprising is that Harry’s lying behind him. His eyes are open where he lies on his side, his head propped on palms pressed together, watching Zayn.

“You’re awake,” Harry murmurs and lets out a soft breath. “I was starting to get worried.”

“What time is it?” Zayn asks. His voice is cracked and dry.

“About eight.” Harry shifts and presses a hand to Zayn’s forehead. “Are you alright? Are you ill?”

Zayn closes his eyes. “I’m fine. Just a long day, I guess.”

“Zayn.” Harry’s nose presses into Zayn’s. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Harry sighs and Zayn feels the heat of his breath against his mouth. “Don’t do that.”

Zayn flickers his eyes open. “What do you want me to say, Harry?”

Harry frowns a little. “Just be honest with me." 

Zayn sucks in a breath and drops his gaze. There’s a million things he could say: he could tell him how lonely it’s felt around the house, even when Harry’s there, or he could tell him how he doesn’t even feel like he can talk to him anymore because whatever he might say will get trumped by a cake that didn’t rise or a jelly that didn’t set. “I miss you,” is what he settles on. 

“I’m right here,” Harry murmurs and touches his hand to Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn nearly pushes him off but he’s not quite that petty.

“But you’re not. Not really. Even when you’re here, you’re not really… _Here._ ”

Harry is silent for a while. “I didn’t— I guess I didn’t realise quite how all-consuming this would be.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Zayn mutters. “You let it be.”

It’s Harry that draws back now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and pushes himself to sit up. “Your projects, Harry. You always have your projects. First, it was the living room. Then, it was chocolate making. Now, it’s Bake Off.”

“You liked the chocolate making,” Harry protests. “And you always say the living room is the best room in the house now. And this is _different._ I’ve always baked. This isn’t just some project.”

Zayn rubs his hands over his face. “You’re missing the point.”

“So, get to the point,” Harry snaps.

“You always choose them over me!” Zayn’s voice echoes loud around the room. He sighs and tucks his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead on top.

“That’s not fair,” Harry mumbles. “What about all the weeks you’ve spent finishing projects at work, not coming home until late, night after night? I never once complained. Not when I knew how important it was to you.”

“But at least when I’m here, I’m here. I’m with you and thinking about you and not about the proportion of nuts to fruit.”

Harry starts to giggle.

Zayn whips his head around and stares at him.

Harry smacks a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “But—” He scoots over to Zayn and wraps an arm around his shoulders. He presses his lips to the side of Zayn’s head then to the shell of his ear. “I’m never had any complaints about your proportion of nuts to fruit,” he whispers, tugging at Zayn’s earlobe with his teeth.

“Harry,” Zayn huffs and shoves at him but it’s playful at best, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry hums and tucks his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck so Zayn can barely make out his words. “You’re wrong, though. I’m always thinking about you. Always, no matter what I’m doing.” He smiles into Zayn’s skin. “Think everyone else in the tent is a little sick of me talking about you, if I’m honest.”

Zayn runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, pressing the pad of his thumb into the pack of his neck. “Really?” He murmurs. He curls his other arm around Harry’s back. “You talk about me?”

Harry looks up at him with a soft smile. He nudges the tips of their noses together and kisses him once, twice. “Relentlessly. My husband this, my husband that.”

Zayn cups Harry’s cheek and draws him in, kissing him slowly. He traces the rise of Harry’s cheekbone with his fingertips. “Like what?” He whispers. 

“Like about how sweet you are to me. About how you’ve let me wake you up at the crack of dawn to eat brownies and how you never complain about what a mess the kitchen’s in.” Harry kisses him again. “About how we met. About how you proposed to me. About how you’re my number one fan.” 

“I am your number one fan,” Zayn says with a hint of pride. “I’m going to get a t-shirt that says so, for when the programme airs and everyone falls in love with you.”

Harry’s cheek dimples. “Don’t care about any of them. I’m in love with _you._ ”

Zayn shivers and wraps his arms around Harry’s back, hugging him tight. “Say it again.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Zayn closes his eyes and holds him tight. “Welcome home, love.”

 

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t win but he does make the final. Zayn spends a nervous few hours hovering around the tent while they complete the final rounds with various eliminated contestants approaching him to ask if he’s Harry’s husband.From the sounds of things, Harry really did talk about him quite a lot. 

“This is going to be so embarrassing,” Harry squeaks from behind the cushion he’s got tucked to his chest and half-obscuring his face.

Zayn sets down the glasses of wine on the coffee table as the opening credits begin to roll on the first episode. He sits down next to Harry and kisses his cheek. “Babe, you already know how it turns out.” 

Harry huffs out a laugh. “I don’t mean that, I mean—” He bites his lip. “Well. You’ll see.”

Zayn wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders and tugs him into his chest. He kisses the crown of his head. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, carding loose strands back from Harry’s forehead.

It’s strange, watching filler shots of Harry pottering around their kitchen on the television. In the background of one shot, there’s a flash of one of Harry and Zayn’s wedding photos and Zayn lets out a soft, contented noise. Harry’s hand curls into Zayn’s sweater.

_“I’m making a rosemary and sea-salt caramel millionaire’s shortbread,”_ television Harry explains.

Zayn’s smile grows. 

_“It’s a really special one in our house.”_ Harry’s cheeks glow pink. _“I made them for my now-husband for our first date. They’re still his favourite.”_

_“Did you cook for him, too?”_ The host asks.

Television Harry laughs. _“No, and thank goodness I didn’t! I’m a_ terrible _cook. Leave the cooking to him and the baking to me and everyone makes it out alive.”_

Zayn chuckles. “Imagine if you’d cooked on our first date,” he teases, temporarily tuning out the television.

“Never would have gotten a second,” Harry mumbles.

Zayn hums. “Nah. You would have. Could have set my whole bloody flat on fire and I’d still have asked for a second date. 

Harry looks up at him, running his hand up the side of Zayn’s neck. “Don’t know if I’d have said yes. Only a madman would ask for a second date after that and I never agreed to date a madman.” 

Zayn grins. “Maybe not. But you did agree to marry one.” He presses his mouth to Harry’s.

_“That’s what my husband always says, anyway!”_ Television Harry says with a laugh.

Zayn chuckles against Harry’s mouth. “You weren’t kidding, huh?”

“Told you.” Harry kisses him again. “I’m _that_ husband.”

“You’re _my_ husband. And I wouldn’t change you for the world.”

 

 

 


End file.
